


For the Now

by Gileonnen



Series: The Blade of the Vanguard [1]
Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Gen, Handholding, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Remembering the Lost, Shared Grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:42:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23244970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gileonnen/pseuds/Gileonnen
Summary: On the anniversary of Cayde's death, Kalith reaches out to an unlikely source of comfort.
Relationships: Male Guardian/Zavala (Destiny)
Series: The Blade of the Vanguard [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1671325
Comments: 17
Kudos: 52





	For the Now

When Zavala comes to the door, for a moment, Kalith doesn't recognize him. His black turtleneck softens his hard edges; his sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, baring the angular tattoos on his forearms. Only the trappings of his office--the Vanguard emblem, the wall hung with shields and hammers--hint at the commander that Kalith has come to know.

"You know I don't typically allow Guardians in here," says Zavala, in a tone of voice that suggests he's already made an exception. "So I'll assume this is an urgent matter. Report."

The briskness in Zavala's voice makes Kalith feel foolish for coming. Whatever bond of trust exists between him and his Vanguard Commander, whatever existential threats they've faced together, they've never yet managed to become friends--and a friend might drop in for a social call, but a subordinate should know better.

 _Foolish,_ Kalith tells himself. _But when have I ever gotten anywhere by being wise?_

He steels himself with a long breath, then says, "It's the anniversary today."

For a moment, Kalith sees grief ghost across Zavala's face--a tightening at his brows, at the unsmiling corners of his eyes. Then his expression softens, and he says, "Come in."

He doesn't have to ask what anniversary this is. He already knows, as intimately and painfully as Kalith does.

Zavala doesn't sit behind his sparse, immaculate desk. He lowers himself slowly into his corner chair, where a scarf lies half-complete on his worktable. Sunlight pours through the windows at his back, rich and white-golden, limning his broad shoulders in light. "Sit," he says, so Kalith pulls a chair over and sits.

He looks down at Zavala's hands, immaculate marble-blue, cut across with shadows. In the shadowed places, ripples of Light flicker across his skin; where the sun strikes him, darkness unfurls in delicate wisps. This would be so much easier, Kalith thinks, if he could fold Zavala's hands in his and just sit in silence until tears came.

Now, listening to the quiet tick of Zavala's old-fashioned clock, it's hard to know where to begin. When the loss was still new, when the absence felt like an organ carved out of him, he might have said, _Give me work._ He might have come to Zavala the way he did to the Spider, seeking purpose and danger to distract him from the hollowness. And perhaps Zavala would have understood that--it cost him, Kalith knows now, not to seek vengeance. He, too, was hungry for someone to give him direction.

Kalith licks his lips, then swallows. He can't make himself meet Zavala's eyes; they're too bright, too intent and focused. He'd fall apart under that gaze. "I'm sorry," he says. "I ... I feel as though if I'd come here to talk to you, I should've actually planned what I would say."

"Tell me about Cayde," Zavala answers, in that low unflinching voice that's been Kalith's anchor since the Red War. If his voice breaks a little on Cayde's name, Kalith finds himself grateful for it--even Ikora is seldom permitted to see Zavala's wounds. This one must have gone a long time untended.

Kalith looks out over the City, watching the transport ships drift in their routes. The afternoon light catches on the tall buildings, turning their windows to sheets of molten gold, and Kalith remembers skylarking across rooftops with Cayde and a couple of his Hunters back when the City was whole. "He used to make fun of my Warlock jump," Kalith says eventually. "'Where's the technique?' he'd ask. 'Where's the style?' We'd race each other through the City sometimes, wall to wall, him in St0mp-335 and me in Transversive Steps--he'd tell it better than I could. But he'd always get so flustered when I beat him because he'd missed a jump and died."

 _Died_ makes his throat go tight. He swallows, but it's as though there's a stone under his tongue; he can't swallow it down. Tears prick at his eyes, but he blinks them back. Dragging his knuckles across his eyes, Kalith says, "Tell me about Cayde. The way you knew him."

Zavala leans back, looking at the ceiling as though seeking inspiration. "I never saw him do a single page of paperwork," he says at last. His smile is faint, but earnest; it's perhaps the first time that Kalith's seen Zavala smile. "He eventually learned to trade in favors--he'd bribe me with alpaca yarn or salvaged poetry books. I'm sure he had some kind of trade with Ikora, too. But when he was new to the Vanguard, he used to hide his papers. I can't count the number of times I opened a vault to find piles of overdue after-action reports."

Kalith laughs, sharp and broken-edged. His throat feels raw; he aches down to his lungs with unshed tears. "He loved stashing his secrets," he says. "Or--I don't know if he loved it. But he felt as though he had to do it. He always had to have some kind of contingency plan. He was the kind of person--he'd greet you with open arms, and you'd only realize much later that one of them had a knife in it. He didn't trust people. Not really. But he cared about them."

He lays his trembling hands flat on the table, fingers fanned out like a hand of cards. It doesn't stop them from shaking. "I found these recordings, a long time after. He must have made a dozen of them," says Kalith. "One for everyone who might have killed him. Accusing us, teasing us, wishing us well. He didn't trust me, or you, or even Ikora. But he ... I don't know how to say it. He entrusted us with something. He wanted us to use our lives well."

Zavala glances down at the space between their hands, and Kalith wishes so dearly that Zavala would close that gap and hold him together. "He did. I was proud to call him my friend."

The silence hangs between them like a leaden curtain. Kalith's rough breath echoes his ears. The clock ticks on in steady, measured strokes.

He traces the side of his index finger along the edge of Zavala's hand, and Zavala lets him; he reaches out to brush his fingertips over Zavala's knuckles, drawing slow circles across his sun-warmed skin, and Zavala lets him. Kalith had expected Zavala to be cold, but instead he radiates a warmth that's more than physical--a kind of heartfelt sympathy that Kalith feels as keenly as a flame.

When Zavala looks up at him, Kalith swallows again and meets his eyes. "Have I overstepped?" Kalith asks softly.

Zavala turns his hand in Kalith's, pressing them palm to palm. Their fingers curl together, first tentatively, then with growing strength. "No," says Zavala. "You haven't overstepped."

They sit like that for a long time, while the shadows stretch long across the floor and the minutes slip by into hours. Kalith tells stories of fleeing with Cayde on Sparrowback from a ketch full of pissed-off Eliksni; Zavala tells him all the ways Cayde used to cheat at chess. They remind each other of how Cayde fought: like a dancer, all flash and grace and thunder. Like he knew no greater joy than the fight. As they talk, a few stray calls come through on a low-priority line, but Zavala reroutes them from his corner chair without letting go of Kalith's hand.

In time, Kalith's breathing becomes easy. He finds he can laugh without the laughter catching in his throat, and tell stories without hearing the gaps where Cayde's voice would be.

Behind Zavala, the City's lights begin to gleam against the red evening sky, illuminating the broken white curve of the Traveler. "I should go," says Kalith reluctantly. "I've kept you from your work long enough."

"We're between crises at the moment," says Zavala. From anyone else, it might sound like a joke, but Kalith recognizes the feeling behind it--more anxiety than relief, anticipating the next blow without knowing when it will come. "Thank you for coming. And for listening."

"I think I did more talking than listening. But thank you for having me." He presses Zavala's hand one last time, then rises from his chair and takes his leave.

He means to go back to the Guardian dormitories, or maybe out into the streets to see what kind of takeout places are open. Maybe haunt the ramen shop where he and Cayde had celebrated a dozen successful missions. But instead he climbs the long stairs to the top of the wall and stands at Zavala's overlook.

Far below him, the City shades into night. Fragments of the Traveler's broken shell drift in lazy orbit, their edges ragged and luminous. Kalith puts his hands on the rail, and a fierce love wells up in him that aches more sharply than grief.

This is the charge that Cayde has given him--this city of unnumbered lights, and the Light within him.


End file.
